


The Chance of a Lifetime

by Blake



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fake Dating, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28435605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: “Would a Crown Prince do?” Arthur asks cryptically the next morning, after Merlin has finished dressing him.“Do what?”Arthur rolls his eyes, as if Merlin’s the ridiculous one for not being able to keep up with a conversation that sprang from nowhere. “You can tell Gwaine you love someone who loves you back and that it’s the Crown Prince of Camelot. Surely that will convince him you’ve developed good taste in men.”
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 283





	The Chance of a Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> I just love Good Pal Gwaine's "---> this guy???" judgment of Merlin's taste in men, combined with his gentle support of Merlin's bad choices and his constant assurance that he's down if Merlin's down. Gwaine's not technically in this story, but he is why I chose to write this.
> 
> I am coping with some stuff right now by avoiding the world and writing little fics. I have a few prompts backed up, so it might take a few days for me to get to new ones, but I would be happy to receive more [here](https://newleafover.tumblr.com/ask)!

Merlin’s not one hundred percent sure why he brought it up in the first place. Sometimes it’s hard to tell exactly why what comes out of his mouth comes out of his mouth. Is it flat-out self-flagellation? Aimlessly complaining because it’s one of the few powers he is able to exert over their shared space without giving _everything_ away? Testing the waters of just how much Arthur understands what goes on between men sharing sheets—generally speaking, that is? 

“It was sweet, the first couple of times,” Merlin goes on, as Arthur’s silence stretches on. Is he upset with him? Annoyed? Incapable of following what he’s talking about? Merlin _will_ keep talking until they both figure out the purpose of this conversation. “But it’s _every single time_ he gets drunk. I can’t get a word in edgewise without him sloshing onto my shoulder and offering, _‘If you ever change your mind,’_ and then _winking_ at me.”

Arthur is staring down at the same square inch of parchment he’s been staring at for five minutes, pretending to read but very clearly paying close attention to Merlin’s tale of Gwaine’s drunken propositions. Any minute now, he’s going to sigh and suggest that Merlin spend less time at the tavern if he wants to avoid Drunk Gwaine, and then actually start reading. Merlin’s _almost_ one hundred percent sure of it. He can read the tension in Arthur’s shoulders like others read runes.

But even the most powerful sorcerers are wrong sometimes. “That is behavior unbefitting of a knight,” Arthur says, his jaw firm and twitching, and Merlin was _not_ prepared for the weakness in his knees he gets sometimes when Arthur tries to act like Merlin needs his protection.

Merlin stops swooning just in time to realize he’s jumping to conclusions and might have to scramble to save Gwaine’s job. He looks up from where he’s making the bed. “When you say it’s unbefitting, do you mean the relentless persistence bit? Or the other bit?”

Surprisingly, Arthur has still not started ignoring him or telling him to shut up. His jaw twitches again. “What men do _without_ coercion I have no quarrel with,” Arthur says, in much loftier words than Merlin has come to expect from their afternoon chats while working in the same room.

Merlin refuses to get his hopes up and believe that means that Arthur has ever _willingly_ thought about two men together in anything but the most abstract way. “He’s not coercing me,” Merlin says, just to be extra clear that coercion would not need to be involved, that Merlin has frequently willingly thought about two men together in concrete ways. “It’s really actually very nice of him. He’s got it in his head that I need to get over an unrequited love, and thinks he can help.”

Arthur is now tossing an apple up in the air and catching it, apparently having given up on working. His jaw’s still twitching, though. “Who is this unrequited love?”

Merlin smiles. He has countless theories about why Arthur would feel compelled to ask such a question, but he’s almost certain that Arthur is unaware of all of them. “Oh, Gwaine’s convinced that I only fall for complete prats who’ll never be good enough for me,” Merlin half-answers. “He won’t rest until I demonstrate good taste in…” He trails off, because implying things instead of saying them out loud is how he gets through every day.

Arthur eats the apple and they don’t speak of it for the rest of the afternoon. Merlin smiles privately to himself, proud as ever to know that Arthur is now more likely to think about two men kissing than he was a couple of hours prior.

~~

“Would a Crown Prince do?” Arthur asks cryptically the next morning, after Merlin has finished dressing him.

“Do what?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, as if Merlin’s the ridiculous one for not being able to keep up with a conversation that sprang from nowhere. “You can tell Gwaine you love someone who loves you back and that it’s the Crown Prince of Camelot. Surely that will convince him you’ve developed good taste in men.”

Merlin is holding out Arthur’s sword, and its weight might be the only thing keeping him from tipping over. He feels suddenly very dizzy and confused. He thinks he just heard Arthur offer to let the whole kingdom believe that he’s sleeping with his manservant. 

Merlin manages to shut out the needy, ridiculous, and vulnerable thoughts rallying for his attention and focuses on one that’s easier to stomach. The one about Arthur’s infuriating obsession with self-sacrifice. It’s a horrible obsession. Gets them into so much trouble. Or rather, gets Arthur into so much trouble, which Merlin then has to get him out of. Merlin hates it. He’s also in love with it.

“He’d never believe me,” he hears himself say. It would probably be something like clever, if there had been any forethought behind it.

Arthur hasn’t taken the sword that Merlin is holding out for him. In fact, Arthur is on the other side of the room, counting keys on a ring, which means either that Arthur is putting off coming close to him, or that Merlin has lost track of their morning routine and is exhausting his arms extending the sword for no reason. Before he can decide which is the case, Arthur says, “We’ll make him believe it,” and Merlin’s thoughts turn swimmy for a long while after that.

~~

Merlin can’t quite find a suitable objection to kissing Arthur.

Telling him he doesn’t need to make this sacrifice would only make Arthur more adamant about doing it.

Supporting Arthur’s alternative plan, which involves the prince telling Gwaine himself that he’s courting Merlin, is absolutely out of the question because there’s no way Gwaine wouldn’t use the opportunity to list every mortifying detail of how pitifully in love with him Merlin has been for years. 

Telling Arthur that he doesn’t want to do it because he’s in love with someone and it would be a betrayal won’t work either, because it will take Arthur only one or two follow-up questions to figure out that he is the one Merlin has been pitifully in love with for years.

The problem is that Merlin’s fairly sure that if he kisses Arthur, it will be obvious very quickly that he’s been pitifully in love with him for years.

But only one of those regrettable scenarios results in both a kiss and Gwaine finally, probably, shutting up, and so Merlin just hopes Arthur’s blind, stubborn stupidity will hold fast.

“Go and fetch Sir Gwaine,” Merlin hears Arthur say out the door to someone in the corridor.

When Arthur comes back into his chambers, all Merlin can look at is his mouth. His wide, pink, chapped mouth, which he has never kissed before. Which he will have kissed, after today. Which he will have to live with the memory of from now until the distant day in the future when Arthur will finally realize that they’re destined to be together, that Merlin has been his magical protector this whole time, that magic is good, and that he’s in love with Merlin, too. 

“Right,” Arthur sighs, verbally steadying one or both of them as he steps to the middle of the room, where Merlin stands, waiting, staring at the gentle slope of the lips that won’t _really_ be his to kiss for a long time still. 

The silence between them as they stand is so heavy and breathless that Merlin loses track of time. They’d thought it out, guessed that it would take between four and fourteen minutes for Gwaine to be found and brought back to the royal chambers. That meant that at any time between four and fourteen minutes, if they heard the sounds of Gwaine approaching, they would have to start kissing.

Merlin suspects that four minutes have gone by, but he can’t be sure. There’s no sound of footsteps yet, and he doesn’t know why he hadn’t realized how stressful it would be once the four-minute mark passed, when they couldn’t do anything _but_ wait, because they had to be ready to be caught kissing at a moment’s notice. Every single little flutter of the wind at the windows, every crash of armor down in the courtyard below, even the thundering beat of Merlin’s heart is loud enough to jolt him into thinking, _This is it_. Merlin’s chest flickers like so much unsteady flame, ready to be put out or fanned to life. Arthur’s shoulders twitch, falling like runes Merlin’s too preoccupied to read.

“What’s taking so long?” Arthur asks, in a voice so low it’s soft. He’s probably complaining out of irritation, but the words land sweetly on Merlin’s lips, as close to whispering as he ever gets.

“Patience is a virtue,” Merlin replies, managing to put on a smile and then finding it naturally takes over his entire face.

“Maybe there’s been some miscommunication.” Arthur looks antsy enough to burst out of his skin or start pacing violently around the room, but either of those options would endanger their plan, and no one could ever accuse Arthur of being undisciplined.

Merlin’s gaze has dropped to the open laces of Arthur’s shirt, where the skin is soft and warm with muscle, and dusted with fine hairs Merlin has felt by _accident_ before, but never by intent to touch. He does not give a response, because he’s already forgotten what Arthur said.

The sound of footsteps echoes just outside the door. Merlin’s heart leaps into his throat. Arthur’s eyes fly open wide, and he steps even closer, but not so close that his image goes blurry, not so close that they’re touching with anything but their breath and the toes of their boots. Arthur’s eyes search his, looking for answers, or consent, possibly, but Merlin is too consumed by his consent to be able to communicate it. Merlin parts his lips, leans in close, waits for the footsteps to slow down as they approach the door, breathes in the tang of Arthur’s breath, and—

The footsteps continue past the door and begin to fade.

Merlin’s heartbeat, in contrast, does not quiet in the least. He lets out a gulping sound that’s half-laughter, half-drowning, because Arthur’s staring at _his_ mouth, as if he’s struggling with the frustrated anticipation as well, and it should be funny, or victorious, but it’s mostly just overwhelming. It’s one thing to know Arthur has committed to kissing him. It’s another thing to feel that commitment, to _see_ it, to sense it like a tingling on his lips, in these brief moments before Arthur will inevitably realize that his commitment is not required just yet, because Gwaine has not yet arrived.

Merlin wishes Arthur would say something to break up the iced-over moment. He’s about to say something himself, but then another set of footsteps approaches. Merlin’s too overwhelmed to do a single thing, and Arthur doesn’t appear to be able to move, either. They might as well have been enchanted into stone, but for the flutter of pulse at the collar of Arthur’s shirt and the trembling hold of his breath beneath his sternum.

It feels like doom. Like fate. They’re going to just stand here, while Gwaine walks in and sees nothing they’d planned for him to see. They must just stand here, because if this set of footsteps is just like the last and simply fades away and _isn’t_ Gwaine, then they can’t kiss, not yet, because then they would just be _kissing_ , without prompt or time constraint or reason, without anything but the swift tumble of their pulses to drive them.

The second set of footsteps disappears into the distance. Merlin’s breath catches as he tries to brace himself for the agonizing prospect of yet another person coming who may or may not be Gwaine, since apparently this corridor has far more foot traffic than he ever realized.

But the hall is quiet, he thinks, for now, unless he’s deafened by the rush of blood in his ears, which isn’t quelled at all by the way Arthur’s looking at him.

His stomach twists and turns when the third set of footsteps starts outside the door, much too light and flighty to be Gwaine, but _still_ , Merlin thinks, _what if?_ , and still, Arthur huffs choppy breaths across his mouth.

Just as the light footsteps start to wander away, Arthur takes hold of Merlin’s face with both hands and drifts closer. Maybe he can’t stand the waiting any longer, either. Maybe he, too, is about to burst if something doesn’t change soon. These are the thoughts flying round Merlin’s head as he struggles to accept the image of Arthur coming ever closer, close enough that he appears blurry, close enough Merlin has to look down at the parted pink of his lips, then close enough he has to shut his eyes, because there’s no one at the door and no one in the hall, and who knows how long they’ll have to keep this up once it’s started, just to make sure Gwaine sees, whenever he does decide to show up.

Merlin sways, held steady by the warm hands at either side of his face, and then Arthur’s lips touch his, tasting every bit as pink, wide, and chapped as Merlin knows they look, but softer than he could ever have imagined.

_This is going to be horrible to recover from. I’m not going to survive this_ , he thinks as he takes Arthur in, fitting their mouths together, pulling in drink after drink and lungful after lungful of him because he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel full. 

There might be more footsteps in the hall after that. Merlin loses the ability to care. It takes a lot of focus to meet Arthur’s kisses eagerly and skillfully enough to _maybe_ convince him that _maybe_ they should do this more often, without also kissing him with all his magic, with all the world, with all the love he’s been harboring for years, just waiting for the right moment.

A door opens, somewhere at the edge of Merlin’s awareness. There are voices, but he can’t hear them. Eventually, the door shuts, and still, Arthur holds him close with an arm barred against his back, and with sweet gasping exhalations Merlin can’t resist clinging to.

Eventually, Arthur pulls back to rest his forehead on Merlin’s, which is acceptable because Merlin can still taste his panting breaths and feel the clutch of his hand twisting the back of his shirt.

“He’s seen us, now,” Arthur murmurs, while Merlin watches the blurry, too-close but too-far-away shapes his swollen lips make. His stomach unravels itself when he sees how scraped raw his face is. He’s never seen Arthur like that. He’s never seen Arthur after he’s kissed a man. All this time Merlin has spent looking forward to a day of reckoning when he could kiss Arthur, and he never imagined what it would look like, _after_. All this time, and he never imagined Arthur thinking about kissing _him_.

“That’s nice,” Merlin says. His hands are tangled in the laces of Arthur’s shirt, and it’s nice.

Arthur’s eyes slide shut, and only flutter slightly when Merlin nudges his nose against his. “You can go back to pining for your unrequited love in peace.”

Merlin tastes the cracks in Arthur’s voice, weighs them on his tongue. “D’you know,” Merlin starts, trying to wait for the settle of Arthur’s shoulders under his palms to guide his fate, but then deciding it’s a waste of precious time. “I think it might be at least a little bit requited, after all?”

And maybe it’s no grand reckoning where Arthur realizes they’re destined to be together and sees Merlin for the good, powerful sorcerer that he is, but the way Arthur looks at him in that moment feels a lot like magic, all the same.


End file.
